He came amongst them like a new raised spirit
To speak of dreadful judgments that impend,
And of the wrath to come.
—THE REFORMER.
The astonishment of Julian at the unexpected apparition of Bridgenorth, was instantly succeeded by apprehension of his father’s violence, which he had every reason to believe would break forth against one, whom he himself could not but reverence on account of his own merits, as well as because he was the father of Alice. The appearance of Bridgenorth was not however, such as to awaken resentment. His countenance was calm, his step slow and composed, his eye not without the indication of some deep-seated anxiety, but without any expression either of anger or of triumph. “You are welcome,” he said, “Sir Geoffrey Peveril, to the shelter and hospitality of this house; as welcome as you would have been in other days, when we called each other neighbours and friends.”
“Odzooks,” said the old Cavalier; “and had I known it was thy house, man, I would sooner had my heart’s blood run down the kennel, than my foot should have crossed your threshold—in the way of seeking safety, that is.”
“I forgive your inveteracy,” said Major Bridgenorth, “on account of your prejudices.”
“Keep your forgiveness,” answered the Cavalier, “until you are pardoned yourself. By Saint George I have sworn, if ever I got my heels out of yon rascally prison, whither I was sent much through your means, Master Bridgenorth,—that you should pay the reckoning for my bad lodging.—I will strike no man in his own house; but if you will cause the fellow to bring back my weapon, and take a turn in that blind court there below, along with me, you shall soon see what chance a traitor hath with a true man, and a kennel-blooded Puritan with Peveril of the Peak.”
Bridgenorth smiled with much composure. “When I was younger and more warm-blooded,” he replied, “I refused your challenge, Sir Geoffrey; it is not likely I should now accept it, when each is within a stride of the grave. I have not spared, and will not spare, my blood, when my country wants it.”
“That is when there is any chance of treason against the King,” said Sir Geoffrey.
“Nay, my father,” said Julian, “let us hear Master Bridgenorth! We have been sheltered in his house; and although we now see him in London, we should remember that he did not appear against us this day, when perhaps his evidence might have given a fatal turn to our situation.”
“You are right, young man,” said Bridgenorth; “and it should be some pledge of my sincere goodwill, that I was this day absent from Westminster, when a few words from my mouth had ended the long line of Peveril of the Peak: it needed but ten minutes to walk to Westminster Hall, to have ensured your condemnation. But could I have done this, knowing, as I now know, that to thee, Julian Peveril, I owe the extrication of my daughter—of my dearest Alice—the memory of her departed mother—from the snares which hell and profligacy had opened around her?”
“She is, I trust safe,” said Peveril eagerly, and almost forgetting his father’s presence; “she is, I trust, safe, and in your own wardship?”